A Punishment For A Traitourous German Actress
by Crystalrose7788
Summary: Col. Landa considers a bit before punishing Bridget von Hammersmark for her treachery. After all, he always was one to prolong the suspense. AU
1. If The Shoe Fits

**A/N: If Quentin Tarantino can use his movie to warp real history, I can use my fanfic to warp movie history.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein mentioned, nor am I getting any monetary benefit from writing this.**

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"After you," the smiling S.S. Colonel said, opening the door to the cinema's office as she limped past him into the small room. As she moved into the room, heel clicking on the floor, he turned the lock and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Please sit down, Fraulein von Hammersmark," he remarked merrily, indicating a chair for her that had been positioned catty-corner to the door of the cinema's office.

As she sat down he carefully removed her white fox wrap from around her bared shoulders, draping the item over a coat tree. A little tug on the coat tree, and the fluffy fur blocked access to the doorknob. She heard the squeak on the floor of the coat tree and felt a sense of impending doom. _Terrified_ was not a strong enough word to describe how she was now feeling in front of Colonel Hans Landa.

It was then, that the door was locked behind her that he pulled over a chair, sitting down directly across from her, their knees almost touching. She regarded him carefully, her head cocked to one side, pale blue eyes narrowed with a mixture of fear and suspicion.

_Such a shame for such a ruthless, cruel man to be so amiable—so attractive, even_, she mused, being careful not to change her facial expression in any way, lest she give herself away. To even think about the appearance of this man at a time like this was merely a mechanism of keeping her mind off of the underlying terror that threatened to overcome her at the thought of a private questioning from the infamous detective. During her musings, he retained uninterrupted eye contact with her, his dark eyes boring into her own, as if they were trekking through the innermost sanctums of her soul. Of course, Landa was only amiable in order to extract information in the civilest way possible, which meant that he could refrain from using any bit of physical force. Somehow he _knew_ when someone had something to hide. It was his forte, his specialty, reading people. And Bridget Von Hammersmark always had things to hide.

Each time she would encounter Hans Landa, though she always smiled politely and exchanged friendly words, just the sight of him, the manner in which he regarded her, unnerved her immensely. He would lean in towards her ear, as if ready to hear her confess to him every secret she had ever kept. She knew from her experience with fans of all types that he did not simply find her attractive and thus was merely eating up her every word in the name of infatuation—rather, he seemed to enjoy causing her discomfort, for as she would attempt to get away, his smile would only increase in size and magnitude.

And what a smile it was: a crooked smirk across boyishly plump lips that he occasionally expanded into a toothy megawatt grin. Either look was enough to cause a woman to swoon—had it not been for the underlying blackness in his heart, an inner evil that he hid under a guise of cordiality, only to let it emerge when the resolve of his victim had been sufficiently worn down.

All the years she'd known him, she could sense his hidden sinister core whenever he'd approach, no matter how warm and inviting he'd appear to be. Perhaps that's why it always seemed that he suspected her, feeding off of her discomfort, her fear of discovery. Granted, even the smallest of secrets she kept inside her, secrets so inane to even be _unworthy_ of divulging, felt like iron spikes driving into her temples the moment he'd cross the floor.

Normally in social situations, she could hide this innate fear of Hans Landa. Now, however, she was alone with him in a small room, a room he most likely had locked behind them. She shifted uncomfortably on her chair as she diverted her eyes from his intense stare, attempting to position her injured leg in a more feminine fashion. Though she was no longer looking at him, she could feel his gaze burning into her cheek, her neck, down the length of her body until it finally settled on her injured leg. She had blatantly lied to him about the injury, an injury that would certainly lead to some very difficult questions to answer.

"Let me see your foot."

She blinked indignantly as she looked back at his face, her thoughts interrupted by his command.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked innocently, looking about her as if waiting for others to agree with her on the peculiarity of the request.

Flashing a naughty grin, his eyes laughing at her, he patted his left leg, indicating that her undamaged right foot was to rest there.

Her eyes, wide and frightened, locked with his, then averted their gaze only to return to their previous position. She inhaled a breath, hearing her heartbeat pounding in her chest until it seemed deafening. She was _certain_ he could hear it, especially as she watched his eyes narrow oh-so-slightly.

"Put your foot in my lap," he repeated, the questioning sound of his previous request replaced with a matter-of-fact assertion and just a dab of impatience. She lifted her eyes to his own, feeling the chill of his cold gaze as his smile faded. A wave of discomfort swept over her, as she watched his smile predictably began to return.

"Colonel, you embarrass me," she muttered, her uneasiness obvious. She looked at him. He was no longer smiling, looking extremely impatient and somewhat annoyed at her failure to acquiesce to his request.

"I assure you, Fraulein, my intention is not to flirt," he replied, his eyes dead serious.

As she considered his request, her eyes darting nervously side-to-side, he allowed for the crookedness of his smile to be swept into a full-out close-mouthed grin of mischief, of intrigue. At the renewed sight of him, her eyebrows lifted in trepidation.

He nodded, flashing her a look of complete confidence, a look that seemed to indicate, '_I know all about you. I know exactly what you're hiding and now I'm going to slowly drain your resolve until you crumble right here in front of me and confess to everything._' His eyes, locked on hers, teased her as his crooked smile revealed his certainty, his triumph over her. She gave him a look of suspicion, but he wasn't having any of it. The wide smile on his closed mouth never wavered as he lifted his left arm, pointing his index finger indistinctly and then invading her mind with his teasing dark eyes as he pointed his finger downwards, lowering it onto his knee. When she finally remembered to take a breath, she saw that his smile had faded.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her right leg up, letting it rest on his thigh. The warmth of his body against her ankle was alarming—it was impossible for her to consider him to be human—rather, some kind of menacing presence that reminded her of her mortality.

With utmost care, Landa proceeded to unbuckle her sparkling heels. She stared at him as he worked his thick masculine fingers on the intricacies of the footwear's straps, smoothly slipping the shoe off of her foot with a smile. She almost felt an inexplicable bout of giddy laughter bubbling up at the thought of him then proceeding to give her a foot massage, but that certainly was not a possibility at the moment. Rather, her breath caught in her throat as if her neck had been caught in a snare.

"Now, would you please reach into my right coat pocket and take out what you find?"

Again his silky request had shaken her out of her thoughts, and she flashed him a quizzical expression. He merely nodded, face graver than before.

Hesitantly, she twisted her upper body to reach into the pocket of his black leather overcoat. As she lowered her hands into the recesses of the pocket, she felt nothing, but then suddenly she could feel a hard rounded object surprisingly large in size. As she ran her fingers down the roundness of the item, she felt the curve of a heel. Her fingers tentatively wrapped around the object as she finally recalled what this item was—her own shoe, a shoe she had inadvertently left in the tavern after the shootout.

As she lifted the shoe by its heel from the deep pocket, she could see that it certainly was her shoe, a brown and cream leather pump she had purchased in Paris several months ago. The contents of her stomach, hot and acrid, rose in her throat and she swallowed hastily, trying her best not to break down in front of this vile, smiling monster.

He eagerly took the shoe from her and proceeded to slip it onto her bare foot with eagerness, much like a demented Cinderella story—the prince the executioner and Cinderella the accused. She could feel iron bars closing around her, feeling them approaching from all angles, ready to squeeze the life out of her.

As her foot was slipped into the footwear, which fit perfectly, she couldn't help but let out a sigh of defeat. As she did so, she attempted to read his eyes but the darkness of them was impenetrable at the moment.

He looked up at her, and, obviously satisfied with his work, clapped his hands together. "What is that American expression—" he said, having switched to English in an instant, "if the shoe fits, you must wear it?"

She paused, looking for an exit. He had figured out that she had been at the tavern, that her Italian companions were imposters, but exactly how much did he know? Would he try to extract information from her or was he satisfied?

"What now, Colonel?" she heard herself say, as she crossed her arms in an attempt to look unfazed. She glanced at Landa now, who looked positively murderous.


	2. A Different Path

**A/N: to Aljinon: though some parts of the movie were absolutely perfect and couldn't be improved, I found the scene with Landa and von Hammersmark could have been streeeeetched a bit to the same effect. Christoph Waltz has quite the smile, that's for sure.**

**to Ayala Steelfire: as I was watching this scene in the theatre, I couldn't help but think it was like Cinderella. I'll be shifting from canon in this chapter, but I am going to keep them in character (hopefully, and please point it out if I don't do so), though the situation is AU. **

**Thanks for the feedback, guys! And now, on with chapter 2!**

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As she sat motionless across from her enemy, she saw that Colonel Landa's face was red, the veins in his forehead prominent, as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, staring unblinkingly somewhere slightly below her eye level. Seconds ticked by like minutes as the silence seemed only to deepen.

Finally, he snapped out of his trance and straightened his posture, squaring off his shoulders as he regarded her the way a farmer might look upon a fox that had just feasted from his henhouse. When he spoke again he reverted back to speaking German.

"Well, you certainly deserve to be punished for lying; do you agree?"

The corner of his mouth upturned, as he was now regarding her with mild amusement. She felt the blood drain from her face. How much did he know? Was he merely pretending that he only knew that she didn't break her leg mountain climbing? Or that she was secretly a double agent in the process of enacting Operation Kino?

"I beg your pardon?" she murmured, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she watched him carefully, gooseflesh appearing on her arms.

"I must remind you that a _traitor_, no matter her fame or fortune, is not immune from execution," he continued matter-of-factly, eyebrows high with concern. "However, given the current, _reversible_ status of your developing plot, I want to teach you a lesson first."

She remained silent, attempting to look towards the door. He had positioned the coat tree and her fox wrap in such a way that it obstructed the doorknob. So he knew of the plot to some extent. No one could put anything past him. It was utterly remarkable how he could know so much and yet appear so unassuming at first glance. When she returned her focus to him, he was beaming, his face completely lit up with a smile of victory.

"I'd ask you to stand up, if you please, Fraulein von Hammersmark," he requested in a formal fashion with a wave of the hand. He was still smiling warmly, though his eyes were glittering like obsidian. He clasped his hands neatly in his lap, waiting patiently for her to obey.

It was then that she began to tremble, until her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes felt hot, and soon she was fighting the tears that threatened to appear there. She glanced nervously back and forth, feeling a wave of nausea wash over her.

"I'd prefer not to say it again, Fraulein," Landa said, his obvious irritation causing him to over-enunciate his syllables. He squirmed in his seat as if attempting to better position the sidearm he probably had at his waist.

She leaned on her brown and cream heel for support as she shakily rose to her feet. As she stood above him, he smiled up at her while remaining seated in his chair. So this was where she would die. Ignoring Landa and his all-knowing smile for the time being, she glanced around the small office. Stacked alongside a large oak desk was a pile of magazines and books. Several pads of writing paper sat on the desk along with various flyers and ledgers. So she was to die in a boring, unremarkable office at the hands of the Jew Hunter. She took a deep breath, turning back to Landa with an air of formality. Instead of looking at his face, though, which most certainly was focused on her, she fixed her gaze on his medals. He had at least a dozen medals and badges affixed to his uniform. Certainly most of those were earned by his ability to hunt down and murder countless innocents….

"Fraulein."

Her eyes snapped up at the unexpected sternness in his voice, an unfamiliar tone that held thinly veiled hostility. If she didn't obey his commands, she reasoned, there was nothing to stop the infamous S.S. Colonel from acting on the rage that he must have felt only moments ago when he was working so hard to contain himself. Germany's sweetheart, a traitor to her own fans, her devoted admirers, had eluded his detection for two years and now that her secret was known, Operation Kino was already underway.

"Yes, Colonel?" she replied, keeping her chin up and hands clasped in front of her. She felt weak at the knees, suddenly glad that the stiff cast was present to prevent her trembling left leg from collapsing.

"Lift up your dress," he stated simply, his face suddenly a puzzle to her. Though he wasn't exactly frowning, the command wasn't laced with any kind of usual flirtation, as risqué as the request was.

Her jaw dropped at his request, as she began to breathe in quick little pants, fighting tears. What was he going to do to her? She stood immobilized in front of him, her hands unclasping but not yet touching the hem of her dress.

"Do it!" he suddenly commanded, leaning up towards her and slapping his thigh for emphasis. Terrified by his abrupt change in mood, she jerked involuntarily, feeling the tears welling up and being completely unable to stop them. As the tears slid down her cheeks, she moved her hands down her thighs, bending down slowly as she began lifting up the cascades of her glittery evening gown, bunching them into her hands. Her cast, then her legs, were soon exposed in all their glory, but Landa's expression didn't change. She paused after having lifted the dress up to the tops of her thighs, unsure of what to expect next. It was impossible to make eye contact with him, and so she stared at his boots as they tapped almost unnoticeably yet anxiously on the floor.

"Higher," he remarked as he blinked impatiently, gesturing for her to further hike up the fabric.

With a quavering sigh, she pulled the material up over her underpants, holding the shimmering fabric slightly higher than navel height. All the while, she stared downward, eyes focused on nothing in particular. _He's going to blackmail me into keeping silent because of what he now knows. Oh, God, he's going to rape me._

_And to think,_ she mused, _if he was not such a callous, manipulating monster he probably could_ _have stood a chance with me._ He certainly had the charm, the affability, the intelligence and grace to be a potential suitor. But there was his innate wickedness she felt beneath his façade of friendliness and good humor—reflected publicly only in the terrifying nickname he had earned for himself, the Jew Hunter.

"Now remove your underpants."

Her eyes shot to his, gaping at him indignantly, too disgusted to want to cry. There was no humor or kindness in his face at this point. With all the hatred in her heart, she glared at him as she stood immobilized due to choice alone, holding her dress up with clenched fists.

The next time she dared look in his direction, she saw a new player in their power struggle: he was now aiming his pistol at her, the butt of the weapon resting on his right thigh.

She was utterly mortified by this request, a fact made obvious by the expression on her face. Finally he spoke again.

"Fraulein von Hammersmark, I have no intention of violating you—only punishing you for your treachery." He watched as some of the tension around her mouth dissipated, and carefully returned his gun to its holster. When he looked back up at her, a grim tight-lipped smile was on his face, eyes expectant. "Now, if you would…"

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**A/N: Ah, so I rerouted this scene quite a bit—what do you think so far? So as you may have noticed, this story **_**does**_** have an M rating, but it's more to be safe than to be an actual deserved rating so far….**

**I welcome reviews and comments! I'll be posting chapters hopefully daily so that you don't lose interest—and so as not to prolong the suspense too long, as it were!**


	3. Rattled

**A/N: **Thanks for the feedback! Now, this chapter is a bit longer and now I guess I can justify the "M" rating, so be forewarned....

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After his friendly-sounding, almost casual request, Colonel Landa pointed in a downward direction, and then in the direction of his sidearm. She had no choice—if she wanted to live. His brutality knew no limits—he would kill her without a second thought.

As she complied with his command, a ghost of a smile appeared on Landa's face at the view, Bridget von Hammersmark, beautiful German actress extraordinaire, standing exposed before him, her underpants lying on the floor. Glancing up at her with a shocking amount of pleasantness, he patted his thigh invitingly. She froze in place, eyes wide.

"I don't understand," she mumbled, feeling a rush of blood to her head, her utter humiliation making her dizzy. She shifted back and forth on teetering legs, unable to look at the man before her for more than a second at a time.

"You are going to position yourself face-down across my lap," he explained, as pleasantly as if describing a parade making its way through town. "Your backside will be here," he added, tapping on his right thigh.

Blushing uncontrollably, she mouthed the word _why, _but was interrupted before she could even manage to croak out a word.

"I think you know what will happen next, Fraulein von Hammersmark," he said with an easy smile.

She bit her lower lip and glanced behind her tentatively, as if ensuring her privacy—or perhaps, considering a rash escape that would certainly result with one or more bullets lodged in her back. A rush of air escaped her nose as she stepped out of the underpants on the floor, supporting her dress with both hands and taking the three or so steps to the side of Landa's chair.

Though she could not look into his eyes, she observed this man who was obviously relishing his complete control over her. His dark blond hair was thick and immaculate, the only sign of his age a slight graying of his temples. His prominent chin was the epitome of masculinity, a square, jutting chin that granted him an air of strength and importance though he was lacking in height. He was slender, but with hands that had clearly participated in physical labor, for his hands were strongly veined, with thick, calloused fingers and a wide palm. In all her years of being acquainted with him, he had never grown facial hair or as much as a five o'clock shadow. Throughout her years of knowing him, he hadn't changed one bit. This may have been fortunate where his looks were concerned, but certainly not for his enduring brutality and heartlessness—and his immoral career.

Looking up at the half-nude woman standing before him, Landa leaned back in the chair to provide more room on his lap. Before making a move to bend over, she glanced down at his lap with alarm, noticing a rather conspicuous swelling in his groin region. The moment's hesitation this caused, as well as her subsequent raising of an eyebrow, unnerved Landa somewhat, leading him to self-consciously glance down to see the particular effect this exchange was having on him. She heard him clear his throat as he attempted to adjust his shirt over it, the smile instantaneously disappearing from his face in the process. She couldn't help but feel a bit successful at having rattled the most cool-headed man she had ever known, if only for a moment or so.

"We haven't got all day, as you well know," he suddenly muttered, annoyance in his voice.

As she began to bend over his lap, still holding the dress, a feeling of faint overtook her and she placed a steadying hand on Landa's thigh, leaving it there momentarily as she composed herself. All the while Landa stared at the side of her face, his mouth slightly ajar, neglecting to breathe. He expected her to spit in his face before he ever would have imagined her laying a hand on him in such a way, so this was quite astonishing. And here he was, relishing in the fact that everything he was commanding her to do was done completely against her will. It almost spoiled the moment for her to enjoy anything she was ordered to do. _Almost._

Never in her entire life did Fraulein von Hammersmark ever imagine she'd be humiliated in such a way by a man that simultaneously disgusted her, frightened her—and intrigued her. He disgusted her through his ruthlessness, ordering the killing of innocent women and children with a smile and a nod, along with his having no sense of morality to bring him any shame over all the evil that he had done. He frightened her every time she had encountered him over the years, in which it seemed that every word leaving the detective's mouth was meant to harass or beleaguer her in some way. And amazingly enough, he never attracted undue attention from others in his questionings of her, instead retaining a ruse of amiability and interest. He intrigued her because of his well-known womanizing ways, which was possible not only because of his power and status, but also because of his ability to dazzle. His fluency in three languages—well, _four_, as she unfortunately discovered just this evening—gave him four times the chance in finding a woman with whom he could converse. He was well-versed in literature and the fine arts and seemed to know a good deal about any topic of conversation. And not only that, but his infectious smile could be used as an attractant in and of itself.

_I hate him more than I've ever hated anything or anyone_, she mused, gritting her teeth as she positioned herself on his lap, lowering her body onto his thighs.

With a sigh of exasperation, he grabbed the fabric at the bottom of her dress and pulled it sharply up towards her neck, so that the bunching of her dress was now positioned slightly under her chest region. She squirmed uncomfortably on his lap, acutely aware of the bulge pressing up against her stomach. Her exposed backside already felt hot as she moved her hands to a new position, gripping the outer edge of Landa's left thigh, her golden blonde hair cascading over the edge, the pretty white flower beret threatening to fall out as she lowered her head.

For a moment Hans Landa was unable to move. A beautiful woman draped half-naked across his lap, at his command. Had there been more time to spare, he would have made her strip completely before proceeding—but then again, he had to maintain some air of propriety—lest the door be kicked open.

"You have humiliated me, Fraulein," he muttered, eyeing her up and down. "And now it's your turn to be humiliated."

As she awaited her punishment, she couldn't help but feel Landa's unstated interest straining against the fabric of his trousers, poking into the flesh of her stomach, and smiled slyly to herself. There was a chance that she could perhaps convince him to let her live, to let her go—a chance that involved that particular appendage of his which defied his rational, calculating mind, an appendage which represented his humanity, his _vulnerability_.

She again shifted position, giving his thigh a little squeeze as she pulled herself an inch or so forward. The advantage of this position meant that his arousal was now wedged in the space between her abdomen and thigh, a region proximal to and reminiscent of a more ideal space for him to nestle his member. Was that a shudder she felt underneath her?

After a moment of silent uncertainty, she felt the palm of his bare hand contacting her backside, eliciting a surprised yelp from her as she felt the sting and heat of it expand over the entirety of her rump.

The second smack was even harder than the first, causing her to again yelp as well as lurching forward at the contact, flailing her uninjured leg in vain. She could feel that the pump he had slipped on her foot was about to fall off, for it had been left unbuckled.

"I must say, now that we have a moment—I've no idea how you remained undiscovered," Landa declared. "Namely, what I find most unbelievable is in spite of how long you've been working for the Allies, that you actually expected to fool me tonight. That was very very bad, _Bridget_."

She felt an odd twinge at his referring to her by her first name, which was an extremely improper manner of referring to an acquaintance in high society. He had broken protocol and done something rather ungentlemanly. It was oddly comforting to her, in addition to the presence of his steady arousal jabbing in the concavity of her hip, giving her the hope that while it remained he wouldn't act on any lingering homicidal thoughts. She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of his voice, now eerily soft and intimate.

"Just for the sake of curiosity, being as you and I both know this won't end well, how long exactly have you been working for the Allies?"

The question was anticipated yet still caught her off guard. Of course, she had never expected him to ask the question while spanking her over his knee.

"Does that matter?" she hissed in a low voice. "You're going to foil—"

"Ah ah ah," he interrupted in a low, singsong tone. She stopped speaking but held her breath. It was an odd place for him to interrupt her, and an odd admonishment at that.

"Now, where were we?" he continued, bringing his hand down sharply on her rump, eliciting a barely stifled squeak from his captive. "Ah, yes, you were about to tell me the tenure of your Allied service."

"Eat shit."

Her words, spoken in English, caused him to stop his casual questioning, his occasional swats. He stared down at her, brows wrinkled with confusion and perhaps even a hint of admiration for her tenacity. Would he now take out his gun and blow her brains out? There'd be no escape for her in this rather compromising position. Her mind, previously clouded with fear and uncertainty, was now lucid with a sense of acceptance. The longer she stalled him, the more likely Operation Kino was to take effect. He blinked indignantly a few times before speaking.

"I see that your association with those ruffians has corrupted your judgment," he said. "You've just made a very serious err, Fraulein."

The suspense lingering in the air was killing her. So _this_ was how he broke his victims down. He prolonged a dangerous tension, providing clues as to his impending actions—never pleasant ones—if his demands should not be met. Of course, tonight would be a different story. Both of them were well-aware that there was a time limit to this encounter.

"What do you want from me?" she cried, feeling helpless. Was he only after a confession from her? Did she want him surrendering to him in a pitiful manner? Did he want to watch her eyes widen with fear, her struggle to breathe, her futile desperation, as her lifeblood poured out of her from a point blank shot?

"Well, I certainly _wouldn't_ want to be in your shoes—err, shoe!" With that he shook with silent laughter at his own wittiness. She cringed. This was merely a game to him, one that she could imagine him performing on some level to those suspected of harboring Jews—to those suspected of being Jews. She felt a fresh wave of sadness for the countless individuals whose last sight on this earth was that sinister smile as they were executed right in front of him.

Landa followed the first two swats with half a dozen more, administering them in an almost robotic fashion. She squirmed and yelped in the meantime, with the realization that although she had not fooled Colonel Landa, Operation Kino was still in action, and secondly, she was still alive. The thought invigorated her. All she had to do was convince him that she did not utterly loathe him, that perhaps a punishment such as this was warranted, and he might let her see another day—maybe.

"Had enough?" Landa ventured. Though she could not see him at this point, she could picture his wide-eyed look of mock concern, the prominence of his bottom lip as he was probably glancing inquiringly at her reddened backside.

"That's entirely up to you, _Colonel_," she heard herself purr, putting on a husky tone. Would he see right through her guise, as he always had? He would kill her if she humiliated him; there was no doubt about that. She neglected to breathe, awaiting his response.

"Is it," he muttered suspiciously. She shut her eyes, feeling her heart fall into the bottom of her stomach.

"Of course," she replied with a false air of confidence, sensuality laced in her voice. Seconds passed by like minutes as she attempted to determine what he was thinking, what would happen next. He remained stubbornly silent above her, a lack of response that threatened to drive her insane.

"Colonel?" she asked, breaking the uneasy silence, her voice still retaining its huskiness. She pictured him looking down at her, at the back of her head, his eyes blinking more rapidly than usual in utter puzzlement.

"Well, this can be determined rather easily," Landa decided, quickly rubbing his hands together. "Let's investigate, shall we?"

Before she could even react to his statement, she felt his hand, still hot from the earlier swats, touching her in the place between her thighs that she was now aware had become wetter than she'd care to admit or even acknowledge. Perhaps this totally inadvertent—yet potentially life-saving—occurrence had been out of nervousness during her earlier contrived statements. Perhaps it was out of utter fear—her bodily functions going awry. Or perhaps her body was still responding to the fact that she had done something she had never seen another person do—she had flustered Colonel Hans Landa. _He has his own conflicting emotions to deal with_, she mused, knowing that his arousal was still very much present, in an attempt to assuage the guilt she felt over her body's shocking response to this dangerous situation.

Landa jerked his hand back as if burned, holding his hand in the air as he stared incredulously at his moistened fingertips. Less than ten minutes ago, he was within inches of leaping at her and throttling her with his bare hands—yet he had chosen a different path. A path—a possibility—that he didn't believe existed. He again glanced at his hand, wrinkling his eyebrows at the sight. A crooked smile crossed his lips. For once, Bridget von Hammersmark had nothing to hide from him.

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**A/N:** So there's some people hitting this story that might want to give me feedback but aren't. Don't be shy!! Btw, the next update should be tomorrow, so if you're really wanting to inform me of something before I write, please do so now!


	4. A Game Of Chess

Wiping off his fingertips on the back of her dress, Landa glanced down at the large white flower in Fraulein von Hammersmark's hair.

"You mystify me, Fraulein."

A few tense moments passed, as she pondered how to reply.

"What is mystifying about your discovery, Colonel?" she finally responded, feeling utterly violated and yet in dire need of keeping up her guise, which suggested she act the opposite of how she was feeling.

"I find it mystifying how you can tell me to eat _shit_," he replied, saying the word _shit_ in English, and then pausing. "Yet in the meantime your body is responding quite the opposite."

"You tell me," she shot back, knowing that he himself had quite a conundrum to explain: his anger at her, his desire to punish her—possibly to even kill her—and yet, he was unmistakably aroused at doing so. Now that she had retorted in such an audacious manner, he was probably going to kill her. Colonel Hans Landa did not seem the type to tolerate disrespect.

"Stand up." His response was curt and sharp, and she blinked with realization. She had made a misstep and now she would pay. She _had_ to throw him off-guard. She knew what she had to do, and the thought made her want to vomit. If she could make him close his eyes for even a couple of seconds, that would be enough time. Every acting skill she had ever learned, she had to use for this next test. If she succeeded, she would live. If she failed, she would die. There wasn't much time.

Mouthing a silent prayer, she hesitated for a moment before gaining her footing on the floor with her uninjured leg and its loose shoe, and then her stiff, cast-bound leg.

She bent her knees as she again leaned her hands on his thighs for support, and then—not so subtly, allowed for the fingers of her left hand to slip down into his lap.

At the unexpected touch, he jerked involuntarily, looking down at the offending hand, than up at her face. She was giving him a shy smile. Immediately he used the hand that had discovered her secret to lift her hand out of his groin area, wrapping his strong fingers around the entire circumference of her dainty wrist to remove her hand. She did not move or pull away from his touch, instead keeping bent over, her other hand still leaning on his thigh. As he released her wrist, he made a gesture for her to stand. She didn't move.

"Stand up."

She gazed into his eyes from under heavily made up lashes. His face and eyes were unreadable.

"Colonel, you took conspicuous. And that," she said, face ever so close to his own, as she indicated his arousal, "has to be taken care of before you leave this office—as you well know. Now that you have discovered my well-guarded secret, I'd hope you'd permit me to do something I've wanted to do for a long time."

His brows etched in confusion, he narrowed his eyes at her. He did not bother to look down.

"And what would that be?"

She didn't skip a beat.

"Pleasing you."

His breath caught in his throat. She couldn't be serious—and yet…. how else could that unmistakable wetness be explained? As he watched her suspiciously, she removed her hand from his thigh, straightening her back, the glittery fabric of her dress cascading down her body like a shimmering tidal wave.

"Why would you want to do that?" he heard himself say. Bridget von Hammersmark, the beautiful young German actress, loved and worshipped by hundreds of thousands of men all over Europe—including himself, he bitterly recalled—in addition to being quite the spy for the Allies, no less—throwing herself at _him_.

He knew very well it was not because she cared for him in any way—quite the opposite, in fact. She was desperate and would do anything to live. By chance, this _anything_ consisted of her pleasing him. Why _not_ let her feel like she had a chance to change his mind, all the while satisfying his unrequited lust for her? If she didn't know better that after all was said and done, that he'd _still_ refuse, then she deserved to use her last moments on earth getting him off. On second thought, perhaps he _would_ spare her somewhat more than he was intending to, as a reward for her work—rather, ending her life cleanly and quickly with a single shot to the head. Yes, that is what he would do.

His thoughts were soon interrupted by her explanation.

"I've always been intrigued by you, Colonel. On the many occasions you've spoken with me, you've been polite and interested but you've never made an attempt to flirt. Your indifference towards me only heightened my interest of you over the years."

Much to her horror, he frowned.

"So you are saying that what interests you about me is my treatment of you. Nothing about me as a person." With that, his frown faded into a smile of amusement, a teasing grin.

"Now, that's simply not true," she stammered, feeling the contents of her stomach boiling in her throat. It would be literally painful for her to utter her excuse.

"Colonel, as you are certainly already aware, you are highly intelligent, extremely witty, and quite the gentleman. Quite handsome as well, I admit. I don't think I've known another as well read and prepared as you are for every conversation, every inquiry. In short, you amaze me, Colonel Landa."

She watched him, keeping her expression constant as she observed his face turning a subtle shade of red. He was blushing! As he blushed, he tried not to smile, but failed. She was certainly trying to win him over, he noted, beaming most cordially at her.

With a flirtatious smile, she clasped her hands in front of her, waiting.

"If your mission is to please me, I am not stopping you," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with mischief, a big boyish smile on his lips.

Awkwardly she leaned down to him as he sat in the chair, her hand making its way for his belt. He watched her carefully all the while, as her hand deftly unbuckled his belt, pulling the strap away. Her eyes focused on the task at hand, she began to unbutton his trousers but before she could continue, he put a hand on her own, moving it away from his groin. Her eyes widened and she stood frozen before him.

_Why will he not let me continue_, she mused worriedly. _There is still some time before Operation Kino is carried out—but perhaps he doesn't believe that. Who am I kidding? Of course he knows we have time. He probably knows more than I do about exactly how much time we have. But then—why did he stop me?_

"Let me tell you what I prefer, Fraulein," he said, with a disarming smile. "It requires you to be on your knees. Completely hands-free."

With that, he gently pushed her on the small of her back for her to step further away from him. He then began to get to his feet, but was stopped by her hand bearing down on his shoulder. A hint of annoyance appeared on his face as she removed her hand from its position.

"Colonel, you may stay seated," she explained, her countenance remaining positive. "It will be more comfortable for you. I think I have an idea of what you want," she added with a wink.

These past couple of years, there weren't a lot of women who could get it right the first time. Often, he'd have to stop them shortly after they'd started their task, chiding them gently for their incompetence as they'd try again to no avail and then leave in a flurry of tears. These French women he'd choose for his subordinates to pick up from various venues as they sat alone or with other women—girls no older than in their late teens and early twenties, with light colored hair at his shade or lighter—were the epitome of the Aryan race—and yet, he was not purposefully being shallow in choosing these particular women. Instead, he'd hoped that as he'd speak of himself, divulging his name and status, that he'd see a glimmer of recognition in the woman's light-colored eyes—a gasp of fear from those scarlet lips as he finally found his quarry—a young Jew named Shoshanna that he had allowed to escape back in 1941.

He had a vague idea of her appearance from interviews he had conducted with other French farmers in the vicinity of her family's home. And yet, strangely enough, when fate crossed his path with a woman fitting the description—the cinema owner Emmanuelle Mimieux, he—for the life of him—could not recall the name of the farmer who had harbored her family. He had reasoned out his plan for her and could not divert from it, even if it meant letting her go for the time being. He had to _checkmate_ her with a series of planned moves and without this information it'd be—a checkmate nonetheless, though a less satisfying one.

Her immediate discomfort at meeting him had him on high alert, as well as her irritation towards the young, polite German war hero Frederick Zoller, an irritation thinly covering raw animosity—and yet, the reasoning for this unclear. Her demeanor at his mentioning of _milk, _though muted, was unmistakable, confirming to him her identity. Undoubtedly the obvious dairy references rattled the woman—step one. However, in order to further build the suspense, perhaps even bring it to a climax, he had to mention the name of that farmer, which he simply could not remember when the time came.

"How is your milk?" he'd planned on asking her. She'd nod, solemnly, perhaps with a hint of suspicion. He'd continue to speak, as she watched him warily, smiling all-knowingly at her. "I noticed you don't seem all that impressed, Mademoiselle Mimieux, but I certainly understand your predicament. It isn't every day you taste milk as _magnifique_ as Monsieur LaPadite's, _oui_?"

That would have been the lynchpin, the word that would've brought the woman's resolve to a screeching halt—her realization that he knew where he last saw her and who she was. Perhaps she would've gasped. Perhaps her eyes would have filled with tears. She might've even tried to run. Only then would he have been satisfied. Unlike her family, this girl had to see her death coming before he would be pleased. He had to wait until the next time they'd meet, which certainly they would, in Emmanuelle's own inherited cinema. He'd bring up an entirely new set of discomforting questions with which to destroy her, bit by bit, until she crumbled. Of course, until the eve before the premiere, he had never suspected the beautiful, famous German actress Bridget von Hammersmark of working for the Allies, let alone her having the audacity to bring a couple of dim-witted Americans into the cinema and think they'd slip past him unnoticed. Her treachery had changed his plans as soon as she'd entered the cinema—but soon enough, he'd find Shoshanna and finish what he had started there.

* * *

It had been six months or so since he had enjoyed the company of a woman. Of course, when these women he had encountered would fail to recognize him, he'd proceed to promptly seduce and bed them, lest his efforts be wasted. Of course, in the last six months, his mind was occupied with more pressing matters; German morale was falling as the Allies tightened the noose on them, dropping more and more troops daily into German occupied lands.

As he watched incredulously, she painstakingly lowered herself to her casted leg, keeping the other leg bent forward as she pulled herself towards him with her pump-clad foot. His smile ever-increasing in size, he spread his legs and scooted slightly forward in the chair, watching her slide up between them, her face smiling warmly up at him. It might be more difficult to kill her than he first considered, if she _performed_ as good as she looked right now, kneeling there in front of him.

Unlike the conquests of his past, Bridget von Hammersmark was already doing the right things. Firstly, it didn't hurt that she was gazing up at him with her pale blue eyes from her submissive position in that expensive evening gown. It also didn't hurt that she was a famous actress who was going to be spending her final moments alive pleasuring him. It was going to be quite difficult for him to contain himself when that lovely mouth of hers would begin its work. It certainly would only be to his advantage that she, as a woman in her mid-thirties, was certainly already familiar with this act. _Perhaps even an exper__t--which would explain all the roles she's nabbed!_ he mused, beaming down at her, imagining himself as a German director and her the struggling actress. This sole vision of role-play in his mind was enough to send a wave of pleasure through his loins, which he immediately followed up with an image of something that didn't interest him in the least--namely, the movie that was currently playing on the screen in the cinema. He stared down at Bridget von Hammersmark with an air of renewed calm, paying special attention to her ruby-red lips and wondering of what they would feel like upon him.

As she affixed herself in her final position between his thighs, she spent a few seconds adjusting the positioning of her legs beneath the fabric of her dress. Her smile plastered on her face, she moved both hands to free Landa's arousal from his trousers. Before she could touch it, however, he again stopped her. He raised a hand, his expression remaining friendly, much to her relief.

"Allow me," he murmured, his voice taking on a different quality, as he looked down at his lap.

His smile had extended as large as it could be—and she could sense the excitement in his actions, for he fumbled before unbuttoning the first of three buttons.

She brushed her right hand down the side of her dress as she watched his fumbling, smoothing out some twisted areas of glittery fabric that hadn't fallen quite right when she had allowed the dress to cascade down her body upon standing.

It was then, in the course of a second or two, that she reached under her dress, clutching the end of the object with an iron-knuckled grip.

Feeling her heart pulsating behind her eyes, she swung it up swiftly it towards its intended target, the thick heel of her brown and cream pump uniting with the center of Landa's forehead.

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**A/N: So I fixed an ordering issue in this story, breaking up a steamy scene with background exposition. Hopefully it improves the flow of the story!**


	5. Heat

**A/N: Hello everyone! Thanks for your interest and your feedback! Per reader request, I've decided to go with an extended version of the story! Originally I was intending on the story being over in this chapter, but I'm glad I was asked to do otherwise! So this chapter is worthy of its M rating, I'd say... So be forewarned!**

* * *

There was no hesitation as Bridget von Hammersmark continued to bash Colonel Landa's face with the blunt heel, over and over, until crimson stained the heel and blood ran down his face in rivulets. With an unintelligible yell he fell backwards in the chair, and letting out a pained moan, landed sharply on his back on the rungs of the chair's back. His attacker immediately stood up and moved towards him with her weapon.

Though his vision was marred from the sensation of burning blood in his eyes, he could see her blurred figure approaching. He thought about grabbing his pistol and ending her with a single point blank shot but this was still much too fun. Though his forehead smarted and his eyes stung, his arousal remained as ready as ever. Did she actually believe she could get the upper hand, simply because she was standing and he was not?

When she was close enough, he renounced his pitiful posture, pouncing onto the foot of her uninjured leg and using both of his powerful hands to grab her ankle. Thinking of how this actress had disguised her cunning plan to overpower him for desperation, he channeled his anger over her deception into twisting her leg at an angle it could not handle. His face red with exertion, sweat beading along his hairline, Landa held his breath as he jerked her leg out from underneath her. She fell to her knees with a gasp, her head lolling backwards in an attempt to keep away from his face, those large worker's hands.

With a mighty grunt Landa heaved his body onto Bridget von Hammersmark's, causing her to cry out in pain as her injured leg was bent in a way it was not accustomed. She straightened her legs out in front of her as best she could as he grabbed her roughly by her upper arms, positioning himself firmly on top of her. The bright red blood from his face dribbled onto her décolletage as he dug his knees in between her outstretched legs, teeth bared in a triumphant smile. He continued to ram his legs in between her own, the fabric of the dress tearing as he did so, eventually spreading her legs wide enough apart so that they could not do much else other than feel sore from their being stretched apart in such a manner. As she gaped down at his face hovering above her chest, he looked much like a devil, face oozing with blood, white teeth glistening with red in the harsh light of the cinema office.

As she watched in horror, unable to move underneath him, he shifted his weight upwards so that they were face to face. Her eyes remained wide open, pupils large enough to completely block out the blue of her irises as she gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like the mouth of a suffocating fish. Effortlessly he pinned her arms above her head, then shifted his double-handed grip of her wrists to one hand holding both wrists, liberating his other hand. He was now positioned above her on a hand and his knees, which had been shoved forcefully against the inside of her knees, keeping her spread-eagled on the dusty office floor.

All the while, she watched him. His eyes, soulless and as black as coal, with no color around his pupils, stared down at her, probing into her mind like an iron stake. On his mouth was a sinister smile, aided in its eeriness by the presence of his own blood staining his lips and teeth. His face was for the most part unmarred by wrinkles or any such scar or marking, but she had been wrong about his facial hair—at this distance she could see the hint of a dark blond stubble on his jaw and in the form of a moustache above his mouth. He breathed onto her as he finally gained complete control over her body, the sour metallic smell of iron mingling with the scent of peppermint.

"Now, where were we?" he announced, his hot breath on her face. "Ah, yes… You wanted to please me." His face was mere inches from her own, her blinking involuntarily as drops of his blood fell on her cheeks. His arousal was unbelievably still present, indicating that he had most likely enjoyed the brief moment she had taken control—and relinquished it. The close proximity to him made her feel like a rabid animal as she struggled in vain to move her body, her legs, her arms. As he continued to speak, she could feel his spittle on her face. "It's a shame you had to go and spoil the moment, Fraulein. You were doing _so_ well, too."

With his free hand he reached somewhere below his belt. She felt his fingers moving somewhere on his own body, brushing against her crotch as they performed their function on his trousers. He felt his own blood pulsating throughout his body, as an insatiable lust overcame him. It coursed through his veins, pooling in a place that was definitely not his brain. How could he, the self-proclaimed Colonel of Composure, have let himself get this worked up?

"Believe me when I tell you that I wish you would have simply done your duty without needing this kind of restraint," he muttered, voice thick and low.

His fingers pulled what she imagined to be his arousal out of his trousers, but she was unable to see it due to the presence of his chest lying heavily against hers.

"But, as you said so yourself, Fraulein von Hammersmark, I cannot leave this room remaining _unfulfilled_—that would be very conspicuous indeed."

With a crooked smirk, he slid his thick hand between their bodies, pushing the fabric of her dress upwards with the tips of his fingers. The calluses of his hand brushed against the flesh of her thigh, of her abdomen, as he pushed the intact material of her dress up higher and higher. He would take what he wanted from her, in the meantime making her pay for her treachery—and of course for her disfigurement of his face.

"I strongly suggest you refrain from struggling—that is, if you wish to continue breathing, of course," he murmured in a husky voice, his hand freeing itself from between their bodies and appearing on the floor palm-down. With his face remaining unreadable, he moved his hand so that it glided along the bare skin of her torso, passing over the bony projections of her ribs, down the soft concavity of her waist, over the swelling of her hipbone. She gasped out of horror and fright, certain that if she began screaming, that he'd make short work of her—and so she remained silent. His hand stayed by her bare hip, his thumb tracing little circles around her hipbone. Why was he bothering to be gentle when he'd soon be violating her? She was perplexed and disturbed by this unpredictable behavior.

Before he could slide down to where he'd be able to then force himself on her, Landa stared at Bridget von Hammersmark's face, so full of life right now, though so _very_ close to death.

All the while she gaped up at him, watching his eyes, his mouth. She had never imagined she'd ever get to see him up close like this. Being as this would be the last thing she'd ever see, she reasoned, she might as well get an eyeful.

The blood dribbling from the wounds on Landa's forehead was becoming sluggish, coagulating in blackish patches around the boundaries of the holes, each roughly the shape of a half-circle—namely, the shape of the bottom of the heel of her shoe. His eyes were full of concentration, moving slowly and deliberately over the entirety of her face with laser-like precision. He licked his lips as he examined her closely, removing the stain of red from around his mouth with the wetness of his tongue. Though his mouth was slightly ajar, she could feel his breath through his nose, deliberate, steady breaths—a bit faster than she would have expected from this ice-veined man, but rather slow for the intense situation. Under his eyes she could see faint grayish lines, more from age than from lack of sleep. At the corners of his mouth were fine lines, creases that ran up to the corner of his nose, the combination of the two lines restoring the symmetry that his crooked smile could not afford him. A series of small, albeit noticeable pockmarks marred his prominent chin, which held a trace of dark blond stubble. From this distance, she could almost count the pores within the cleft on his chin and noticed what looked to be dimples in the skin of his cheeks. The smile that elicited these dimples, though theoretically attractive, was a horrifying sight when in the proper context—for example, right now. However, to her relief, Landa refrained from smiling, keeping his face expressionless for the moment. The time she had spent scrutinizing Landa's couldn't have lasted for more than half a minute, but it seemed like forever to her as she awaited his next move.

In his close inspection of Bridget von Hammersmark's face, Landa saw her eyes, wide and fearful, pupils overwhelming their light blue counterparts, her lips slightly parted. Being as he lie directly on top of her, he could feel her rapid heartbeat through the material of his shirt, through the medals and decorations pinned to his pockets. Landa gave her a grim smile, his eyes exploring her face, as she remained completely silent, frozen with fear, with impending doom. He could see the traces of rouge she applied to her cheeks, the powder foundation coating the fine hairs of her face, as if she were a porcelain doll covered with a thin layer of dust. Her lipstick was no longer immaculate, with a smudge rubbed off on her lower lip, and a crimson smear across her upper lip that extended onto the creamy complexion of her skin. Her eyelashes had been lengthened and thickened with the help of black mascara, which unfortunately was clumping at the base of more than a few lashes. Her nose was straight and small, with a trace of shininess—smudged-off powder, he suspected, on its tip. She blinked rapidly, her breath leaving her nose and mouth in shallow gasps.

As he moved his gaze downwards, he could see the pulse throbbing in her neck, her perfect, unblemished neck, save for a mole or two hidden under a thin layer of powder.

When he again looked into her eyes he could see that she was equally at work examining his face, his features. He felt the urge to swallow, to blink. Her life was in his hands and yet she still looked at him, studying his face, regarding him as a person. He had never expected her to be this courageous in the face of certain death, this willing to want to survive. Sure, she could have spat on his face, could have cursed him into hell in that crude English, and he would have then exterminated her rather quickly. But he'd never expected this strange staring contest before he would be forcing himself onto her, emptying his seed into a body that would soon hold no life, no hope. As many repulsive actions as he had performed in his past, he had never dared cross this particular line before—and yet, there this chance was, right in front of him—a true enemy of the state, there for the taking.

He couldn't bring himself to do it while looking at her face. Bridget von Hammersmark's face, full of fear and a strange sense of innocence, evoked rather different feelings from him. Had she not been the disgusting traitor she was, evading his detection successfully for however long—and then having the audacity to pummel his forehead with the very item that incriminated her—he might have been inclined to kiss those lips. But not now.

She had prolonged the moment successfully. Certainly in less than half an hour now the dynamite would explode and she and Landa would be no more than a couple eliminated during some tryst in a cinema office. How, though, could _he_ be sure that the plan wouldn't be enacted while he punished her in his own humiliating ways? She was torn from her reverie by the sound of his voice, cool and calm as ever.

"I must say, Fraulein, I'd never expected the situation to end in this manner," he murmured, a crooked grin on his face.

"What manner?" she quickly replied. What _was_ his final plan here? Was he to commence forcing himself on her? Was he to go for his sidearm, which presumably still remained at his hip?

With his free hand he reached towards his hip, answering her question for her.

"Colonel Landa, I implore you to spare my life," she heard herself say. She was only thirty-six years old and had so much to live for—namely, she couldn't wait to have her Hollywood career jumpstarted after Operation Kino was enacted and the war had ended. All this, of course, depended on her surviving the night. A possibility that looked bleak at the moment.

"What was that?" he replied with a big toothy grin. "Oh, that's right; your _life_. I'm afraid that option is no longer possible, Fraulein. Now, if you had simply done your duty earlier while on your knees, you may have stood a fighting chance."

"You don't have to kill me," she whispered. "You can be a hero to Germany without needing to kill me, just by stopping this operation before—"

"Ah ah ah," he responded in a singsong voice, the same response he had given her before when she had mentioned his halting the operation. His free hand, she presumed, had found its target at his hip. She swallowed loudly.

"Why do you interrupt me like that?" she spat. "If you don't care that the operation will proceed—though you have the power to stop it—then you're no less a trait—"

"Do you think saying things like that will change my mind?" he interrupted with a goodhearted chuckle, though his eyes were cold. His smile faded until his face was utterly sober. "On the contrary, Fraulein."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you—" he began, moving his free hand back towards their upper bodies, a metallic clicking accompanying the movement, "—to resist resisting." There he was again, beaming at her, his teeth perfectly straight and white, surrounded by those deceptively boyish lips.

His smile never wavering, he opened his hand, exposing a pair of shackles. His eyes focusing somewhere above her head, he brought the shackles up over her face until it met his other hand, which had been busy restraining her hands. In seconds her hands had been shackled together above her head.

Suddenly he lifted his body up so that he was on his knees, positioned between her thighs. His hands moved immediately to his pistol, though not quite touching his sidearm. She couldn't help but notice that his smile remained all the while.

Staring into his laughing eyes, she hesitantly moved her shackled hands to her chest region, the positioning of her wrists under her chin a posture of self-defense. It was then she noticed that his arousal was now exposed, a thick, stiff rod standing at attention in front of the green-colored material of his shirt. He was aware of her eyes traveling to this organ and chuckled naughtily, glancing towards her exposed groin, the ripped dress now tucked up towards her chest region baring all below.

"Tell me, Fraulein, have you ever owned a dog?" he implored matter-of-factly.

The question struck her as extremely out of place. In fact, it made no sense whatsoever. She proceeded to answer it with great care.

"Yes," she admitted, watching his face, her face twisted with confusion, suspicion.

"Male or female?"

She was utterly puzzled now, which was not lost on him. His mouth drew up into a crooked smile, dimples appearing in his bloodstained cheeks.

"Both… Why?"

"Ah ah ah," he chided. "Just follow my line of questioning without diverting it, please. Now, have you been certain to keep your female dog—the bitch, as it were— indoors during certain times of the year?"

She began to sit up, but was met with the palm of his hand. Strangely during this talk, his arousal still remained. She let her head lay back down on the floor and sighed with exasperation. What was he getting at, anyway? With a sigh, she began her response.

"You mean, when the female was in heat—"

A nod from Landa, accompanied by a disconcerting smile. He was all but completely ignoring his arousal, which implausibly lingered. She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling rather lost. How could he switch his line of thought so rapidly, one minute ready to pounce and the next asking her a series of banal questions? She rolled her eyes before replying.

"Yes."

"Now, what would happen if you failed to do this?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, attempting to read his mind. Of course that didn't work.

"What do you mean, fail to keep the female indoor—"

"Yes." He was now unabashedly beaming, a smile lighting up his entire face. Had it been a completely different situation and had he not been Colonel Hans Landa but an American G.I. with that disarming smile, those sparkling eyes, those perfect teeth, she would have been ready to do anything. But this—this man was essentially torturing her with his two personas, a sinister presence under an easygoing, attractive façade.

"Fraulein, as I already inquired, what would happen if you failed?"

"A male dog would…. Well, you know, Colonel Landa…"

"Would _what_?" he asked, with the utmost of politeness.

"Would _mount_ her," she finished, feeling revolted. Was this stupid conversation the last she'd have in her life? Was Landa doing this on purpose to make her feel like an idiot? She couldn't be certain.

"That's a bingo!" Landa suddenly exclaimed in English, looking positively ecstatic. It caught her off guard as she looked up at him, confusion written all over her face. She cocked an eyebrow at him as if he had just grown an antler.

"Are you familiar with that American term, Fraulein? I can only assume you are."

Watching Hans Landa beaming, his megawatt smile as large as it could possibly ever be, she had never seen a man look so excited in her entire life. Yet Landa liked to show his unabashed joy, no matter _how_ inappropriate it was. She felt her intestines squirming around inside of her, her entire body full of uncertainty and discomfort.

"No," she muttered, keeping her hands close to her chin, watching him warily all the while.

"You failed tonight, Fraulein. Do you know what that means?"

Her eyes widened in disgust and horror, and she was reduced to silence, attempting to scoot her body away from him by digging her feet into the floor and shoving her body backwards. He put his right hand on her uninjured calf, gripping it tightly and keeping it in place.

"As you told me yourself, when you fail, the female gets mounted," he explained giddily. A chill passed over her as the merriment in his eyes suddenly faded into darkness, his stubbornly remaining smile now taking on a sinister form. "And, well, I only see _one_ female in this room—a rather deceptive _bitch_, at that."

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**A/N: I've got more stuff coming! Any comments or suggestions for me before I begin writing it? I hope so....**


	6. Betrayal

A/N: Thank you to all who have been following along, and to those who want more! Now, as a warning, this chapter isn't pretty and has one instance of rather coarse language. It's also the longest chapter so far....

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"You can't be serious," Bridget von Hammersmark gasped, eyes as wide as saucers, looking up into his face. How had this evolved from a simple punishment—a degrading, humiliating one at that—to something truly bestial? Here a Waffen-SS Standartenführer in all his military splendor and well-earned medals knelt in front of her like a wolf ready to pounce on a sheep, incredible danger in the dark depths of his eyes. She couldn't have been any more surprised if his mouth had been watering, which it wasn't. How had she elicited these sorts of feelings from someone well known for his complacency—a man who _not only_ could not be unnerved, but also a man extremely proficient at unnerving others?

"Do I look like I'm kidding," Landa replied matter-of-factly, retaining his powerful grip on her calf.

"No, you don't; but I must warn you, Colonel Landa, there isn't much time."

"You haven't been too concerned about it, Fraulein, until this very moment. You've no watch to keep track of the time, so my guess—" he said, revealing his watch from beneath his sleeve, "is probably _better_ than yours."

"Please don't do this," she pleaded, remaining immobile on the floor. "You are a reasonable man; you don't have to do—"

"Reasonable?" he chortled. "If I didn't know any better, I'd believe that was a compliment."

"It was, Colonel," she hastily replied. "You are so very sophisticated, and this would be below you."

"Ha!" Amusement was written all across his face. He slapped his thigh with his free hand, her eyes following the movement and noticing his arousal was still not waning. "So you are saying it is below _me_ to have sex with _you_."

"Yes."

"Tsk tsk, you've got to work on your self-esteem, Fraulein von Hammersmark. Now, if you please, why do you feel this way?"

Her mind raced. What fact would put him off of her, would disgust him enough to get him to refrain from _mounting_ her, as he called it? What would utterly revolt him? She was going to die tonight—she felt it in her bones—but she did not want her last sight on earth to be the Jew Hunter forcing himself on her like a crazed animal. How to disgust Colonel Landa, the _Jew_ Hunter….

"Because I am half-Jewish," she blurted.

Bridget von Hammersmark's father was a semi-famous German actor so she reasoned that Landa would know her father's Gentile background. But her mother was a homemaker, an unknown that was never seen at premieres, was never in the public eye. It was a shot she had to take.

For a moment he froze in place, just staring at her. Within a second or two of her speaking the words, he burst out laughing.

As he laughed she watched him tuck his arousal back into his trousers and almost wanted to sigh with relief. Perhaps her ruse had worked, if not in the way she had originally intended. Even so, he was still in hysterics. She gaped up at him, a mixture of horror and fear boiling inside her stomach, heart thudding in her skull.

She watched him then drop his head, resting his hands on his thighs as he lowered his body onto his haunches. His face had turned bright red, eyes shut tightly as he guffawed quite the same way as he had done when she had mentioned mountain climbing in the lobby. Tears ran down his cheeks, body shaking as he tried to control his laughter, which then sank into his throat and remained there as he shook in silence, probably finding it difficult to breathe. _Oh, God—_ she mused, horrified –_but how would he know?_

Now was her chance. As he remained in his fit of laughter, she slithered her legs away from him as best she could with a full leg cast, and drew her knees up towards the sky after her feet had been firmly yet silently planted on the floor. With a start she lifted her upper body, using her shackled hands to push herself off the floor and twist her body around in a mad dash for the door.

She was not able to hear his continuing laughter through the heartbeats thudding in her ears, the sound of her own labored breathing as she struggled to keep her mouth shut in an attempt to keep from panting with exertion. Of course, she hadn't realized that it was not the sound of her overworked bodily processes blocking out his laughter; he had in fact stopped laughing.

"Where do you think you're going?" Landa growled, standing up quickly and lunging towards her in the tiny room. As she flinched away from the sudden voice, one shackled hand on the doorknob, the other feverishly batting the dangling fox wrap away from the lock, he grabbed her roughly by the upper arm.

"Do you actually believe I'm that stupid, Fraulein?" he hissed, promptly swinging her around by the arm until she slammed face first into the large oaken desk, her upper body doubling over onto the piece of furniture, spilling various papers onto the floor in the process. She let out a yowl of pain as the cast of her injured leg connected with the desk, forcefully slamming her gunshot wound against the inside of the cast.

One moment he was beside her gripping her arm, the next he was shoved up behind her, his body pressed up against her own, the dress having since fallen again to the floor. She could feel the friction of his calloused hands now pushing down on her bare shoulders, keeping her upper body bent over the desk. Warmth emanated from his trouser-clad legs, the bulge of his arousal rubbing against her backside. She shuddered, attempting to squirm sideways to get away from him. It was then, after she had been pinned against the desk, that he broke the tense silence.

"Your mother is Margarete Bauer, daughter of a Lutheran minister—certainly no Jew. That was a particularly poor attempt, Fraulein, especially in your assumption that I am revolted by Jews. Now, where were we?"

His hands left her shoulders for a moment, reappearing just above her knees. She could feel her dress again being hiked up and made an effort to straighten her back, all the while stomping her good foot onto his boot. She was about to speak, but was cut off by Landa.

"You do realize that it's rather insulting to me for you to resist so fervently. I have been told by many that it is _sex_, and not Jew hunting, that is my true forte. And based on what you know of my reputation for the latter, you ought to be very impressed indeed."

"To say you are not revolted by Jews is an outright lie, Colonel Landa," she retorted, turning her head to view him with her peripheral vision as her cheek rested on the desk. "How can you do such things to those people—hunting them down like animals and then slaughtering them—without some explanation, as contrived as it might be?"

"I need no excuse to do my job to the best of my abilities," he replied coolly, having again exposed her backside, now again fiddling with his own pants. "After all, it is my expertise in detection that makes me invaluable to the Reich."

"Ha!" she suddenly exclaimed, but then immediately fell silent. She felt him freeze behind her, unsure of what he would do next. Would he throttle her by the neck from a position safe behind her? Would he simply force himself on her without another word? Would he demand an explanation? She couldn't decide which consequence was the worst, and held her breath.

"Now, what in the world was that for?" a voice suddenly whispered into her ear.

"You figure it out," she hissed, attempting to come across as unafraid but being completely terrified.

"You know, that little outburst of yours a moment ago completely altered what I perceived was to happen here. Rather than being on all fours on the ground to receive me, you're instead bent over a desk. Yes, a very different outcome indeed; wouldn't you agree?"

"Fuck you."

As she spat the words at him with utmost hatred, she dug the heels of her hands into the desk in an attempt to push herself off of the desktop, but he bore down even harder on her shoulders, leaning his entire upper body onto hers.

"I'm afraid you have that one backward," he replied in an amused voice. "You don't hate me, Fraulein. I think that the humiliation you feel over betraying your country is in fact what's driving all this defiance, coupled with your instinctive desire to be put in your place by _moi_."

She felt his hand slip down below again, his fingers running across her womanhood as she squirmed awkwardly all the while, hating him, hating herself.

"Now, see there?" he said with great pleasure, "Again I prove my theory to be correct." She felt him wipe his fingers along her thigh, the wetness of them leaving goosebumps where he touched her. She felt an urge to just grab his gun and blow the both of their brains out, for all the disgust she felt at her own body again betraying her.

"Do you want to play this game, Fraulein? The loose bitch in heat mounted by the dog? Or, better yet, the naughty little half-Jew being taken by the Jew Hunter?"

"You're a monster," she hissed, the shackles now digging into her wrists. "If I survive this I'm going to ensure the rest of your life is hell, because you deserve it."

The warmth of Colonel Hans Landa's body enveloped her like a cloak, though she could feel the cold medal of his various awards scraping against the bare skin of her shoulders as he breathed in and out. She again attempted to stomp her foot on Landa's boot, but it was no use. They were constructed of hard black leather and were probably reinforced with steel in the toe, based on their utter inflexibility.

"Oh, what to do, what to do," he muttered quizzically, idly rubbing his hands along her bared skin, "kill Bridget von Hammersmark and live in peace, a hero—or let her live and give her the chance to make my life hell? Hmm, a very difficult decision indeed…."

"Since you've decided, just get it over with," she snarled, positively furious, clawing at the desk like a rabid lion as she struggled to lift her upper body off of the piece of furniture. She continued, her fury ever-increasing. "I only hope that at least one of the people you are responsible for killing haunts your memory and gives you nightmares every night of your miserable life."

"So you're giving me permission then?" She could almost picture him beaming at her as he whispered silkily into her ear, the tip of his tongue almost grazing her earring.

"As if you would need my permission."

"Point taken," he said with a tacked-on chuckle. It was enough to make her want to vomit.

She moved her head forward, resting her chin on the desk as she listened intently for his next move, expecting his hands to quit their wanderings and go for the weapon—namely, his Luger. As she continued imagining her hopefully painless death, he did move his hand from her skin back towards his body.

_This is it_, her brain screamed, a cold sweat running from her hairline, beads of cold moisture working their way down the rivulets of her neck tendons. Every hair stood on end. _When exactly will my life begin flashing through my eyes?_ A shuffling of fabric. _Better for that to be the last sound I ever hear than the sound of his sadistic voice_, she mused.

Suddenly she let out a scream, which was immediately stifled by a thick hand clamping across her mouth. The body behind her shoved into her forcefully, slamming her knees against the oak as she became aware that rather than penetrating her skull with a bullet, he was penetrating her womanhood with his own weapon of power. She saw his hand then, positioning itself stiffly on the desktop as his medals scratched across her back, the sharp edges of the iron crosses positioned on his lapel digging across the flesh of her shoulders as he moved rhythmically along her body. There came a deep ache within her at this violation—a never-ending void in her loins throbbing painfully with the realization that he had actually went through with such an act, that the usually debonair Colonel Hans Landa was capable of such personal, intimate violence.

She squirmed and kicked and struggled underneath him, causing him to move the hand he had set on the desk to her back once more, shoving her back down with a rather sudden blow between her shoulder blades. All the while she spat behind the hand that covered her mouth, opened and closed her jaw as wide as it would go in an attempt to bite him, but only ever able to produce loud but incoherent sounds.

"Soon I will not be so conspicuous," Landa suddenly revealed, his voice having taken on a thick tone and marred by the presence of subtle pants. "I thank you for making me aware of what needed to be done."

Landa was most certainly panting by this point, and she could almost picture the redness of his face, the prominence of the veins in his forehead as he worked himself to a frenzy. As he moved faster and faster against her, her teeth now gritted from the pain his medals caused her back, his hand suddenly left her shoulders, repositioning themselves on a rather sensitive region of her anatomy and remaining there. As he approached his own release he used his fingers to tease her own brainless vulnerability between her thighs, a much smaller entity than his own vulnerability. All the while she remained speechless, her breath catching in her throat as she jerked about, struggling to get away from his knowledgeable prodding. Why was he even bothering to care about her pleasure? She was his victim, and thus, this strange stroking was not suitable for such a relationship.

As he slowed himself down, seemingly in an effort to get her caught up in the fervor, his thick masculine fingers effortlessly stroked that barely perceptible knob, keeping their position until she wanted to scream from the betrayal of her own body. He kept his body bent over hers, panting into her ear as her head jerked side to side, hips swaying against the desk, legs unable to stop fidgeting about.

Bridget von Hammersmark whimpered as she felt dizzy, her mind overwhelmed with her thoughts, which wholly conflicted with the ecstasy he was inflicting upon her nether regions. She must have swooned, for she felt his hand leave her mouth, moving to cup her jaw as if it were made of fine porcelain.

"Why are you doing this?" she muttered, her voice trembling, clumsy. She felt utterly drained, her throat as dry as cotton as she attempted to speak.

"Upholding my reputation," he remarked back in a husky tone, his mouth too close to her ear, and she could picture the knowing smile on his face. "So, Fraulein, do you think it's about time?"

"Time for wh—"

"You'll see," he replied in an amused voice. "Soon you'll know how it _feels_ to be betrayed—and by your own body, no less."

Within a matter of moments Landa was moving quickly again, his hand feverishly stroking her to a hot numbness, his other hand leaving her jaw and covering her mouth as she cried out—half from dismay, and half from his obvious expertise. There was then a lack of any negative feeling in her entire body, her legs and arms feeling like gelatin, as she felt him attain his release inside her. How had he warped this scenario in such a way? Her head swam and within moments she had collapsed face-down on the desk.

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"Wake up," a male voice swam through her consciousness. "Wake up, Bridget." She felt a light slap to her cheek, suddenly aware of soreness in her nose and jaw. Had she survived? Was this Lieutenant Aldo Raine speaking to her, speaking crookedly out of his boyish lips, clad in his neat white smoking jacket? She attempted to move her hands, which were still securely shackled together.

She opened her eyes towards the sound, squinting in the light of the office as the blurred face came into focus. It was Colonel Hans Landa in his black leather coat, a hat on his head, down on one knee beside her. He was getting ready to leave. He must have placed her on the floor, because she didn't feel the soreness she'd expect to feel from falling flat on her back. She began to try to sit up, noticing that her dress decently covered her and that Colonel Landa looked concerned. Not in the concerned way he'd observe a man suspecting of hiding enemies of the state, nor the concern he'd show towards a foe, but what seemed like a genuine concern for her health that she presumed could never cross that face. His eyebrows were knotted, lips drawn into a tight grimace as he watched her intently, his gaze focused on the fluttering of her eyelids, the subtle movement of her lips.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she blurted, utterly terrified.

His mind didn't register his actions anymore. He simply leaned his face downwards, moving his head steadily towards his captive, eyes closed, features relaxed.

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A/N: So I hope that chapter wasn't too horrific! I've never written a scene like that before (or experienced one like that, for that matter) so that was quite a leap for me. Please let me know your comments, criticisms, and ideas! I can read my stories over and over again, but I post them here for your feedback!


	7. Seduction

**A/N: _Danke_ for the feedback! You guys are the best and I streeeetched this chapter longer than originally intended for your reading pleasure even though this story is on its way to being wrapped up! I hope you like it!**

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Bridget von Hammersmark gaped indignantly at Colonel Landa's rapidly approaching face, his closed eyes…

She let his lips touch her own, feeling the dryness of his bottom lip brushing against her own parched lips. His lips implored hers gently, a light pressure as they angled themselves over her own, the sudden damp sensation of his tongue lightly moistening the connection between the entrances of their mouths. She could see the light brown eyelashes of his closed eyes as his face brushed against her own, the faint stubble of his cheek rubbing across her skin like fine-grit sandpaper. The smell of blood, peppermint, and pipe tobacco emanated from his skin, as his mouth pressed against hers, his full lips moving against her lipstick-laden ones. Her shackled hands remained together under her bust line, arms bent at the elbows, as she considered what her options were—and what exactly his plans were.

As she allowed him to continue the kiss, she shivered. Why hadn't he simply shot her after she had served her purpose over the desk? She felt his tongue gently prodding against her lips, moving back and forth lightly as if pacing around after requesting entrance.

With grim acceptance, she granted Hans Landa's tongue entry into her mouth as she closed her eyes to block the view, knowing it was likely her last. He delved deeper, though his kiss was surprisingly tender. His hand rested firmly on the ground, supporting his upper body as she allowed for her tongue to slide over his own. Now would be the perfect time to bite down, to sever that most-reviled organ clean out of his mouth—the organ responsible for all the questionings, the investigations leading to countless executions. For the life of her she was too petrified to do much else other than kiss him back. Simply put, his actions frightened her out of her wits. How could one man, a man so able to predict the actions of others, be himself so utterly unpredictable? To force himself on a woman, but then to work for her release as well—and then to kiss her so tenderly afterwards. It made no sense.

She then felt his hand running along her waistline, moving from the curve of her hip upwards, barely skimming the shimmery fabric of her evening gown. He ended the kiss, lifting his head and smiling at her, eyelids heavy and grin crooked and—had it not been for her terror and hatred for this man—utterly irresistible. His eyes were bedroom eyes, pure and simple, unfortunately framed by his Nazi uniform, the skull on his hat almost seeming to wink down at her. As he watched for her to change expression at his blatant intrusion, his hand reached its goal—her breast. She gasped, eyes widening with confusion.

"Why are you doing this?" she blurted. "I don't understand."

"You ask too many questions, Fraulein," he replied matter-of-factly. With that, he pulled back the dress to expose her breast, focusing his gaze on his newly uncovered prize. He heard her gasp but only looked back at her for a brief moment, his eyes shining. She watched him intently as he again returned his focus to her breast, smiling down on it ravenously as if it were a fresh strudel topped with the most delectable cream. Her face became ever-hotter as he then lowered his face onto her breast, enveloping it in the warmth of his mouth, his tongue encircling its apex with practiced expertise. She quivered involuntarily at the sensation of suction from his mouth, a renewal of moisture gathering in her nether regions as he delicately suckled. How could such a monster be such a lover? Hans Landa was a walking contradiction, a man she could not understand nor manipulate. _Something_ was going to explode soon, and it might not necessarily be the cinema.

After bestowing the same treatment on her other breast, Landa raised his head and licked his lips, flashing her a wide toothy smile of triumph. As he did so, he made certain to cover her back up, restoring the neckline of her dress to its original position. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Colonel Landa, I am confused," she remarked.

"How can you be confused? I am merely bestowing pleasure upon a beautiful woman," he responded, grinning wholeheartedly. "I'm sure you receive offers all the time, but I can now say that I have had the privilege of doing to you what many men can only dream about."

She felt a blush coming on and her mind screamed—_don't fall for his niceties and his compliments! You know damn well that there's an underlying motive for this sudden change in him! You know better than to let him win you over with his charms!_

But what could she do? She had to get out of this room, if only to avoid the impending explosion—both in herself and in the cinema. She had to get the upper hand, if only for a moment. That would be all she would need. To immobilize Hans Landa for a short time and escape. His voice, thick and breathy, pulled her from her thoughts.

"What are you thinking, Fraulein? Have I embarrassed you?"

"Yes, you have, Colonel Landa."

He put a hand up, closing his eyes as if bothered by her response. She cocked an eyebrow in curiosity.

"I must request that you call me Hans; Colonel Landa is far too formal. May I call you Bridget?"

She felt very much like rolling her eyes, but evidently a change had come over him. Perhaps she could convince him to let her go. _Perhaps._

"Of course—Hans," she scoffed, attempting to come across as unperturbed. "You needn't ask such things."

He watched her carefully as she slowly sat up, her eyes never wavering from his own. She half-expected him to push her down, but he simply remained in his half-kneeling, half-squatting position to one side of her body. Could she be winning? Even if she was, she had to seal the deal.

It was then that Bridget flashed Landa a most surprising smile, an intoxicating, come-hither grin that was entirely meant for him. He was a bit baffled by this shift in her strategy, but knew his sexual prowess had been more than enough to alter many women's initial opinions of him. His infamous reputation afforded him no openly interested women—that is, until he was close enough to seduce them. Even Bridget von Hammersmark was not immune to his charms; that he certainly knew.

"Kiss me," she murmured, boldly leaning towards him, chin up as her eyes focused up at him, pale blue hidden under a curtain of thick eyelashes and heavy eyelids.

"Of course, Fraulein—err, Bridget," he corrected with an easy laugh.

Her smile increased for a moment to acknowledge their new intimacy of a first-name basis, then she lifted her shackled arms up over her face to run her fingers through her hair. He watched her suspiciously as her face approached ever-closer, hands still above her head. In the last several inches before they would make contact, she, with eyes now closed, slipped her shackled hands behind his head, settling her hands on his shoulders. He couldn't help but narrow his eyes at this technique, knowing exactly what might become of this daring move of hers but knowing he could blow a hole right through her stomach at any time, if she should be so stupid as to attempt to strangle him with the chain.

He closed his eyes lightly as their lips again touched, Bridget von Hammersmark taking the lead this time around, grasping his leather coat tightly under her hands, feeling the muscles of his shoulders shifting in his back as he shifted his positioning slightly to better accommodate the kiss. She pulled his body tightly against hers as she felt him lower down onto both knees, and then further lower onto his haunches to maintain balance. Again his medals brushed against her décolletage, their bodies flush against the other. She slanted her head slightly to gain entrance to his mouth, and was allowed entrance. Now he would know _her_ charms. She already had the looks, the fame, and the love of her many fans. Knowing that the Jew Hunter himself, as sadistic and sinister as he was, had been able to excite her—well, _she_ could alter his entire opinion of her with her feminine wiles.

She slipped her tongue into his mouth, flicking it about until it collided with his tongue, which happily received hers, mimicking its motions and attempting to battle its way back into her mouth. A moan escaped her lips as her shackled hands ventured further down his back. He was fortunately slight of build, slender and free of bulk, making her ecstatic that she had some freedom of motion so as not to focus on the obvious target of his neck.

Landa couldn't help but open his eyes at this new development: Bridget von Hammersmark's shackled hands wandered down his back, the chain brushing against the leather of his coat as her hands continued southward. She had since opened her eyes at this moment and their eyes locked for an instant, eyelashes almost able to touch. Modesty overcame her and she looked downwards, continuing the kiss with a renewed moan, her hands feeling their way down the back of his coat.

Now Landa was feeling ill at ease. Was she attempting to get at his pistol? There'd be no way she could lift her arms up over his back in time to fire off a shot. Was she really so foolish as to assume she could try such an audacious move? All he'd have to do was lean back and her hands would be stuck in place. He allowed her to continue, curious as to the limits of her intelligence. This was a game she could not win.

She pushed into him with new force, moving her lipstick-clad lips over his full lips, moistening them with the very tip of her tongue as she teased him with a throaty giggle. At the same time, her hands lowered to their final position and squeezed flesh—namely, Hans Landa's derriere.

With a start his body jerked and he stopped the kiss, eyes shooting open as if affronted. This woman had unabashedly grabbed his ass, had done so without even asking his permission or being told to do so. The women he had chosen to sleep with over these last several years had not been the type to take control, to do what they wanted to him simply because they wanted to. Bridget von Hammersmark was more mature than these girls of twenty or so and far more experienced. He had not expected a fact like that to delight him, but as her fingers squeezed into the flesh, pulling his derriere towards her, he couldn't help but feel thrilled at the development. Could he become aroused again so soon?

Bridget von Hammersmark's eyes opened slyly, staring boldly and directly into Landa's surprised eyes.

"I've always wanted to do that," she murmured huskily, squeezing his backside again as he again recoiled.

"I thought so," he replied after a beat. With that, he wrapped his own arms around her back, crushing her to him as he continued a powerful kiss for several more moments—a kiss and embrace that left her breathless. She felt his well-muscled body against hers, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths, the slenderness of his waistline, sandwiched by her on both fronts. His large hands clutched her flesh tightly but without eliciting any sort of pain. The palms of his hands were hot and moderately damp as they skimmed over the skin of her upper back, grasping the flesh there with a neediness that shocked her.

As she felt trembles of excitement, she reminded herself that her body was pressed against Colonel Hans Landa, that ruthless, terrifying mercenary that politely killed hundreds, if not thousands of innocents. How could such a man be so dichotomous, sadistic on the one hand, tender and passionate on the other? The thought made her guts churn louder and louder until she was sure he could hear them.

When he finally ended the kiss, he pulled his head back but only far enough so that he could take in her whole face when he looked at her. He beamed at her, his eyes cheerful and amiable, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red. He looked much like a man in love, all starry-eyed—she could almost swear that she could feel his heartbeat as they pressed against each other. Had she triumphed over him? Had she swayed the unswayable Hans Landa?

Her heart thudded in her neck, half from excitement, half from simply looking at Hans Landa in such a state. She reasoned that he'd never expose himself this way, allowing himself to look so lovestruck, so vulnerable, unless he truly felt it. She couldn't help but smile back coyly at him, feeling that she had won. A lovestruck man wouldn't kill the woman he loved, she mused—not even if that man was Hans Landa. His voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"May I see your hands?" he asked her, as polite and sweet as he could be, his voice taking on a boyish, shy tone. She felt like melting on the ground and then laughing at the outcome of this encounter.

"Of course, Hans," she replied, with a raising up of her shackled hands, removing them from the region of his backside and inching them up his back, brushing along his coat as her hands continued their journey upwards. As she slipped her hands up over his head, he held out his hands, taking hers in them. She held her breath, feeling her heart beating faster and faster.

"I hope you don't mind my switching to French for a moment, Bridget." He looked down at her hands, holding them so that her palms faced upward. "Ah, French, the language of romance—much less harsh than German," he added with a sigh.

"Why," she murmured in German. She was not proficient in French, but she would hopefully be able understand to it if he kept it simple. Maybe he'd recite to her Paul Verlaine's _Clair de lune_ or perhaps a selection from Pierre de Ronsard's _Sonnets pour Hélène_. Perhaps he'd utter a single word in French and then proceed to unshackle her wrists, a distinct possiblity.

Much to her surprise, he leaned forward, still on his haunches, and planted a soft kiss on each of her flushed cheeks. He then lifted her shackled hands up to his face and leaned down to tenderly kiss each palm. His face positively glowing, he then looked straight at her, staring into her perplexed blue eyes with his dark laughing eyes. A hand lifted to stroke the side of her face delicately, as if wiping the dew from a flower petal, and he murmured softly his flawless French.

"_Parce que je dois dire adieu… mon __amour __traître."_

_

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**A/N: So, what do you think? Please, leave me any comments/suggestions/opinions that you'd like! One more chapter to go--a chapter that is still unwritten (and thus, quite flexible)!**


	8. The Luger

A/N: Hello again and thank you to all the reviewers! If I haven't replied to your last review, I will! I just wanted to squeeze this final chapter out before the weekend! I hope you like it!

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Bridget von Hammersmark's limited grasp of French did not turn out to be an issue in understanding Hans Landa's message—all that was relevant in his silkily spoken sentence were the words _adieu_, signifying a permanent goodbye, and _traître_—a word needing no further explanation. He had fooled her. He had fooled her the way he had fooled the countless families and individuals he had hunted down over the years. His strategy was consistent. First, he'd fluster his victims, painstakingly breaking them down and watching them squirm. Next, he'd completely back off, getting their guard down, making them feel as if the danger was over, allowing them to breathe a sigh of relief, a grateful prayer—and then striking.

She had not altered him or his final plans for her in any way. Everything that had occurred in this room had been tailored to his wishes. And now she was going to die. She looked at Landa's right hand, which was suddenly holding his Luger, his finger on the trigger.

He smiled at her as his silky words left his lips, and she could swear there was a trace of sadness in his eyes, a sort of pity. His gaze never leaving her face, he stood up quickly so that he was now looking down at her, his face shadowed and eerie in the harsh lighting of the cinema office. He now aimed the Luger at her forehead, his arm unbent and finger ready for the final squeeze. She remained on the floor frozen with shock, gaping up at him as she grasped for words that would not come. He had expected tears, perhaps a sob, at the view of him above her with the weapon of death. Her muted reaction disappointed him. This anticlimactic response was not fulfilling the _checkmate_ he wanted to enact on her.

"Fraulein," he said, returning to German, "I have decided to spare you…" he added with a grim smile, inserting a dramatic pause after the first phrase as he watched for any transformations in her composure. Her expression didn't change; she knew him better than to assume he'd stop there. She knew what was coming and certainly didn't want to give him what he wanted—in this case, a tearful confession.

"—from the painful, lengthy death I had originally intended for you," he continued. The expression of horror he hoped would subsequently appear on her face was also absent, a fact which again greatly disappointed him. Was she not going to give him the satisfaction of watching her cry at his feet, begging for mercy?

"Now, being as the show will be ending in…" Pausing, he glanced down nonchalantly at his watch, "—oh, twenty minutes from now; and being as I have other things to attend to—I'm sure you understand these things, being as you yourself had several roles to play here tonight as well, none of which you fulfilled, may I remind you—I must bid you _adieu_."

With his left hand, he tipped his hat at her, his mouth now shut. Of course he wouldn't ask her for any last words. She kept her expression impassive, which was rather difficult to do—but the extended time of their encounter had shaken around her emotions so violently that now they were essentially numbed. Her fate been set as soon as Landa had laid eyes on her from his position on the balcony above the cinema lobby.

"Oh," he suddenly said, remembering something. His eyes lit up with recognition, an odd half-smile appearing briefly across his lips. With that, he began fishing around in his pockets, allowing the hand holding the pistol to drop to his side.

She watched his hand moving towards whatever he had forgotten, his head now angled down and to the side in the direction of his target. His left hand fished around in an inner pocket of the right side of his leather overcoat.

Suddenly she was grabbing his pistol, wrenching it about to shake from his grip, one hand around the barrel, the other digging her manicured fingernails into his flesh. In addition to forgetting about the item he had been looking for, he opened his hand and released the Luger, which she quickly snatched, now aiming it up at him.

Landa just watched her quietly, standing above her nonchalantly as her feeling of triumph dampened slightly. She might not have a good angle, being on the floor with him standing above her, but she now had a gun and he didn't!

Feeling a surge of adrenaline at the development, she scooted her body away from Landa as she held the pistol steadily on him, and then stood up, leaning her left shoulder against the door. As he watched in surprise, she without hesitation pulled the safety lever forward and up before cocking the weapon and aiming it at his head. He hadn't expected her to actually know how to operate a pistol, rather, he expected more along the lines of her demanding him to tell her how to use it.

Before she would pull the trigger she looked one last time at Landa—who was inexplicably smiling at her, not a trace of fear in his eyes. _What the hell is wrong with him? I killed a young German soldier, a brand-new father at that, just yesterday, and I've no reservations about shooting this despicable man. Does he not realize that?_

"I must say," Landa remarked, his voice almost giddy, "you impress me, Fraulein. You've defied my every expectation—very impressive indeed. Now I realize that you are ruthless, just as I am. I have not given you enough credit, all this time merely considering you to be a beautiful if not sub-par actress."

A frown instantaneously appeared on her face. It was a blatant insult poorly disguised as a backhanded compliment. She narrowed her eyes at him as he continued to speak, taking a step towards her steadily aimed weapon. Was he crazy or just overly presumptuous?

"Yes, _sub-par_, Fraulein von Hammersmark," he continued boldly, his smile never wavering, "being as you could not even _act_ as if you were revolted by my touch. I guess your success on the screen is not easily translated to real life, eh?"

The audacity! Not only was he insulting her to her face, but he was moving towards her! Did he not expect her to fire the weapon? He had obviously been wrong about her just a moment before, so why was he under the assumption that she'd not kill him now?

"Stay where you are," she warned him, her voice taking on an odd, sinister tone that she had never used before. The sound of her own voice triggered a new surge of adrenaline flooding through her veins. All the while Landa completely ignored the command, watching her intently, a naughty crooked smile on his face as he took a deliberate step towards her. He even failed to stifle a rather obvious yawn in the process.

Suddenly, several gunshots exploded from somewhere above them, perhaps in the projection booth, perhaps in the opera box seats. She felt panic rise in her throat. If she didn't leave the cinema soon she would be killed by the ensuing explosions and all of this submitting to Colonel Landa's wishes will have been for naught. The four explosives her comrades were toting around their ankles were soon to go off—of that she was certain. Obviously, she mused, the guise of her American comrades as butlers, with guns hidden under their towels, was already being enacted, the gunshots from above all the proof she needed. They probably saw that their ankle bombs were soon to explode and moved on their plans. Her mind returning to the current situation, she looked back at Landa, noticing that his eyes were looking in an upward direction and that he had ceased to move for the time being. He had heard the shots as well.

"It's beginning," she heard herself say, her voice somber and eerily unearthly. The gun she held steadily aimed right between Landa's eyes, below the scabby remains of where she had pummeled him with her shoe. She looked right at the man in front of her, a grim smile on her lips. "And for you, Colonel Landa, it's ending."

With that she pulled the trigger.

* * *

A click. Barely stifled laughter from the colonel.

Silently scoffing, Bridget von Hammersmark pulled the trigger again. Another click. The smile on Landa's face grew with each click. Six more times she pulled the trigger, to the same effect. The magazine was empty.

With a toothy grin he fished in his inner right coat pocket, lifting his hand from the pocket to reveal a bullet.

"You looking for this?" he murmured, a naughty smile lighting up his entire face.

"You cowardly bastard," she hissed, utterly disgusted. His eyes flashed with humor, and he chuckled good-naturedly at her irritation.

"Quite the contrary, my dear. In fact I rather _enjoy_ knowing I can order anyone to do anything using my interrogation techniques alone. The gun is merely a backup, which I only wave about when my word alone doesn't produce results: a rarity, as you can certainly imagine. I didn't even bother to switch to a Walther like the other officers, being as my Luger has served me well thus far—wouldn't you agree?"

They were both even now, essentially weaponless—him with the bullet, her with his gun. It was a weaponless standoff with each just out of arms' reach of the other. She held her breath, remembering the impending explosions, the pistols that had been fired upstairs in the cinema. It would all be over soon—didn't he realize that as well?

Promptly she tucked the Luger between the shackles and moved her shackled hands to the door, deftly batting the fox wrap away as she unlocked the door with a resounding click. She gave Hans Landa a brief, expressionless glance as she turned the doorknob, pushing the door open with an elbow…

She felt the rush of air blow across her face as she moved through the threshold, felt the lights of the lobby upon her and heard the murmurings of a cluster of Nazi guards standing by the cinema entrance, another several ascending the stairs in a hurry, most likely to determine the source of the gunshots. She would be free; she would get away intact from this—the cinema entrance was so very near—it was as if she could reach out and cross through it. But then, her shackles. How would she explain that? Her fox wrap she had left behind in the office would have been a perfect hiding place. Of course, she _did_ have a gun—and no one but she and Landa knew of its emptiness.

As she took her first hasty steps across the lobby, a hand gripped the single strap making up the mid-back region of her evening gown, its fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh of her back as it clutched the fabric of her clothing with a death grip. She pulled forward doggedly, hoping that with her now elevated heartbeat, the determination flooding through her veins, that she could pull away.

"Give me the gun," she heard Landa growl behind her.

"Do you take me for a complete imbecile?" she retorted in a raspy whisper, hearing the fabric tearing as Landa's left hand grabbed her by her right upper arm. After a silent moment, Landa violently spun her around so that she was now facing him, almost losing her balance and throwing out her hands to steady herself, an easy feat being as she was half barefoot and with her other foot mounted on a heel inside its cast. Of course, she hadn't realized her steadying hands landed right in the center of Hans Landa's chest.

It was then that Landa noticed movement in the form of a smattering of guards at the entrance as they stood outside the doors of the venue, and, his eyes now glittering with glee, one hand gripping her firmly by the arm, began to drag her towards the entrance, all the while holding the copper bullet beneath a finger. She could picture it now: even if she could escape his grip, she'd be mowed down with bullets as she fled the cinema, cheerfully condemned to die by Landa as he yelled for them to fire upon her. She imagined lying facedown on the road in front of the cinema, blood oozing out of her back, her mouth, pooling on the road as her final earthly sounds, namely, Landa's voice and gunfire, would become a generalized ringing of her ears, a buzz that would quickly overwhelm all other sounds; she'd struggle to breathe, to move, perhaps seeing a rapidly dimming view of Landa's boots moving towards her as her senses would fade into nothingness.

She was torn. If he yelled loud enough the guards would be able to hear him through the door. The fact that they hadn't heard the gunshots upstairs was encouraging, but she couldn't let Hans Landa get their attention—or bring her to the guards.

It was only a moment before Bridget von Hammersmark was in front of Landa, rather than dragged alongside him. And only a moment more before her mouth was upon his again, her tongue working its way into his mouth with desperation, the Luger planted between the heels of her hands as she used her nails to tear into Landa's decorated green uniform shirt, the silvery buttons flying off in different directions as her manicured fingernails made their way for the collared white undershirt he donned underneath his green uniform shirt. She shoved herself flush against him, his chest against her chest, her hips grinding into his own, pushing him back in the direction of the office.

Landa's eyes went wide momentarily at the sudden intrusion, but of course, he knew the last minute desperations caused them to act hysterical—not unlike this famous actress's final performance. He allowed for her to kiss him, not even trying to stop her vicious assault on his uniform. Besides, he had several more at home and this _was_ rather fun—like watching the last twitches of a beheaded chicken—only, Bridget von Hammersmark was the chicken—and certainly not beheaded at the moment.

All the while she continued her assault on Landa's mouth, shirt and body, Landa stubbornly retained his grip on her arm—which he presumed she wanted him to release with this last rush of desperate public affection—his other arm now attempting to shove her backwards, to no avail. She was utterly frantic, completely maddened with a burst of strength that enabled her to attack him in such a way, assaulting his clothing and shoving herself against him as close as any two people could be. If he should call on the guards, she'd be dead in an instant; he need only speak the words— _töten sie diesen Verräter_. As soon as he was able to speak again he would. Even so, he let her continue her aggressive kissing, feeling the buttons of his collared shirt snapping off, a new draft as the cool lobby air breezed across his exposed chest.

* * *

Meanwhile, two Basterds stood beneath the steps of the balcony, thoughtfully witnessing the scene unfolding before them, a splendidly dressed woman and a Nazi kissing. Aldo Raine and Smithson Utivich had been instructed to be kept in the lobby by an earlier remark of Landa's to a guard before Bridget was whisked away into the cinema office. It had been rather uneventful for the two American men thus far, what with the guards standing near them speaking to each other in their harsh German accents for more than an hour now, but now that gunshots had gone off, the guards were gone. And for some odd reason, when Raine and Utivich had moved to re-enter the cinema only minutes before this kissing scene, they found the doors to be locked.

Suddenly it dawned on Raine. This was no random coupling: Bridget von Hammersmark, a supposed ally of theirs, the woman who was allegedly responsible for Operation Kino, was the woman full-on kissing a Nazi. And not just any Nazi; Colonel Hans Landa, the Jew Hunter, the man they had just spoken with earlier. Not only was she kissing him, but she was tearing his shirt off as well. What the hell was she trying to prove?

Utivich quickly put his hand over Aldo Raine's opening mouth. Now was _not_ a good time to attract Nazi attention. Another fifteen minutes, and Operation Kino would be in effect—that is, of course, if it _was_ indeed an Allied operation. Keeping silent, they both narrowed their eyes at the sight—was she a triple agent? Their rendezvous at the French tavern, a meeting place chosen by Bridget, had ended in the death of two Basterds and a British Lieutenant. And now she was kissing the enemy.

Landa was facing the entrance of the cinema, so he could not see the two men that had been pacing around under the balcony stairs, Raine in his white smoking jacket, Utivich in his black tuxedo. The guards that had been associated with the Basterds had since gone away to investigate the source of the gunshots. The unfolding events—the gunshots, the locked cinema—had made them edgy and this scene wasn't going to help their edginess go away. Still locked in a kiss with Landa, Bridget suddenly spotted the pair, her eyes widening in surprise. When Landa's eyes appeared to be opening again, she instantaneously shut her eyes, hoping for another break to convey to them the trouble she was in.

Raine and Utivich could save her—they should easily see that this very public kiss was merely a ploy to stall Col. Landa. She thought of a silent prayer. _But are they _smart_ enough to see that…_

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Raine and Utivich were shaking their heads disapprovingly at her, Raine's arms crossed aggressively across his chest, his chin arrogantly thrust outward and upward. _No, they aren't._

Her eyes widened again but she could do no more. A lopsided _I-gotcha_ grin on his face, Raine looked down at his watch. Now was the time that he'd rendezvous with the other Basterds in the upstairs bathroom. In fifteen minutes the bombs would be exploding. Raine then pointed at her accusingly and shook his head, one eye narrowed as if readying for a shot, a crooked grin under his bushy moustache. She shut her eyes again, lest Landa see the focus of her attention. When she opened her eyes again Raine and Utivich were gone.

Bridget's heart sank in her chest, and she felt a wave of hopelessness wash over her. To be so fortunate as to have her allies in the same room as her, only to have them take it the wrong way. She alone was responsible for her own survival.

As she continued to kiss Landa, preventing him from speaking but feeling utterly crestfallen at the failure of her comrades, her hands ran up and down his exposed chest, fingers combing through his light-colored smattering of chest hair as he felt the side of his cold Luger pressing fully against his chest, a stark reminder that the upper hand was still yet to be won. Now that she would have no help from Raine and Utivich, she had to take matters into her own hands. Now Landa attempted to move his free hand, to wrench the weapon from her, but she had a firm grip on his chest hair and frankly, it hurt quite badly for him to pull away from her even though his hair was still amazingly intact. He'd get his gun soon enough, when she lay crumpled on the floor in front of him like a discarded coat, bullets from the guards buried in her back.

It was then that Bridget's hands rapidly wandered upwards, roaming over the fine curls of blond chest hair between his collarbones, over the bump of his Adam's apple, one hand snaking under his red, black and white striped tie, one hand moving for the button at the collar of his shirt. Was he going to strip him right here in the middle of the lobby? Was she attempting to make it look as if they were some passionate couple newly discovering their love for each other on this important night for Germany, and so escaping the suspicion of the guards?

One of Bridget's hands closed around Landa's highest war honor, his gold Knights Cross of the War merit cross, and the other on his tie, and suddenly the kiss ended and she was yanking down with all her might, a force and jolt so unexpected that Landa couldn't help but let out a choked yelp, catching out of the corner of his eye her body moving away from his as his head followed her tugging. His hat fell off of his head, skimming to the ground like a Frisbee, settling several feet away from the silent mêlée. The bullet flew out of his hand, a metallic _clink_ as it hit the ground and rolled away from the pair. His eyes widened then shut tightly as Bridget von Hammersmark savagely snapped his neck downwards by his medal and tie, viciously twisting the ribbon about so that the cross was more snug against his neck, and pulling down again with both hands, his head helplessly following. Unable to breathe, he felt his heartbeat pounding in his head as instinct kicked in. His hand released her upper arm, racing his other hand in a beeline for his neck, but she was too fast, jerking the cross downwards, again forcing his head downwards—but this time, his forehead connected with her bent knee.

He fell to the ground in a heap, feeling her release his cross and tie as his hands went immediately to his injured neck, rubbing them as he gasped for breath. He blinked indignantly and in utter shock as she stepped around him, returning in an instant sans Luger, the fox wrap disguising her shackled hands.

Landa looked up at her from his position on the floor of the lobby, a hint of fear and admiration in his eyes, observing her warily as she strode past him with the serenity of a person who knew no worry. His breathing was ragged and shallow, hair askew, face a deep red with a not-so-subtle sheen of perspiration. He attempted to speak, but his voice came out an unintelligible choked rasp. She had never seen him in this state and the thought of it amused her to no end. Oh, how she wished she could be holding a loaded pistol now, putting a bullet in every limb but his head and chest just to hear his screams. If the both of them survived this evening, he'd get his due; _that_ she would guarantee.

She peered up at the guards, who were still standing unaware at the cinema entrance, a smile appearing on her face as she then glanced at the empty stairs to the balcony. Her smile didn't falter as she again looked at Hans Landa, who couldn't help but rub his throat continuously to assuage the pain, his head probably still spinning as his current inability to speak sunk into his head. He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Bridget von Hammersmark's voice, now barely above a whisper, as she leaned towards him, though keeping a safe distance away from him.

"Colonel Landa, the reason I laughed earlier at your self-proclaimed expertise in detection was because I in fact have been a double agent for two years," she remarked, her voice quiet yet confident. She watched his expression very subtly change, his eyes taking on a look of astonishment, his jaw dropping ever so slightly, and then continued.

"It seems the many that pointed out your true forte may have been correct, because you are only a _sub-par_ detective, at best." She straightened her back, beginning to turn away from him now. With a final smile gracing her now-bare lips, she murmured one last sentiment. "_Au revoir_."

And with that, Bridget von Hammersmark limped quickly out of the lobby in full view of a weaponless, voiceless Hans Landa who could do nothing but watch in disbelief as she strode by the guards without so much as a second glance, becoming smaller and smaller then altogether disappearing into the night.

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A/N: So, what do you think? Should I continue this story? I've left it a possibility! I hope you let me know either way!!


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